Page 20 of Highland Seduction

“Ainsley.” He slowed and she did the same. When their mounts came to a full stop, he told her something his mother had said many times. “Even if ye’re strong enough to stand alone, be wise enough to ask for aid and brave enough to accept it.”

“’Tis no’ brave to accept aid.”

“Ye believe it is brave no’ to do so?” Clearly, she believed just that. Tor would not think of his urge to dismount and pull his wife from her horse, to kiss her long enough that she forgot such worries. “Do ye believe yer clan is strong?”

Her answer was immediate. “Aye.”

“What makes them so?”

He’d tricked her and she knew it. When Ainsley wrinkled her nose in disgust, Tor laughed so hard he could feel a quivering in his stomach.

“Ye’re a wicked man, Tor MacRob.”

If only his wife knew the truth of her words. He would have a bit of sport with her as they rode once again. “Would ye care to learn how wicked, my dear wife?”

Her jaw dropped. “Tor!”

“’Tis a simple question, Ainsley.”

“Ye speak of . . . unmentionable topics.”

“Unmentionable? We travel alone, with no companions to speak of. Ye slept in my arms last eve, and will do so again tomorrow when we sleep among the stars once again. I am certain there are no topics that are unmentionable between us.”

Again, she had no retort. Tor could say the words with certainty because he had already considered it. Tonight they would sleep at an inn, and while he’d procure one room, as they were, after all, husband and wife, his bed would be the floor, as few inns boasted large beds. But tomorrow eve . . . he’d not chance another nightmare.

Tor’s decision had naught to do with the feel of his wife by his side.

“Ye’re incorrigible.”

“I’d no’ deny it, lass. Though ye’re still yet to answer my question. Would ye like for me to show ye precisely how wicked I can be?”

“Tor,” she chastised him again.

Enjoying himself, he pressed her. “We will, of course, sleep in the same room of Hayle Inn as husband and wife. I’d planned to lay my head on the floor but can be persuaded to share yer bed.”

If the color of her cheeks were any indication, his aim had hit its mark. “We cannae . . . we cannae consummate this marriage, as well ye know.”

“There are other ways to find pleasure between a man and a woman, Ainsley. I will gladly show them to ye.”

Smiling, he watched his wife’s back as she sped in front of him, too embarrassed to continue a discussion that, as an innocent, she’d unlikely had with any man before him. Tor was suddenly looking forward to the remainder of this eve.

Shrugging off the small note of warning that crept into his mind, a part of him attempting to temper his excitement, he spurred his horse forward, catching Ainsley and surpassing her. His wife’s sound of frustration was the last thing he heard before the sky opened suddenly and a soaking rain accompanied them to Mend Hayle.

Chapter 12

The Hayle Inn, like the town itself, according to the innkeeper, had been originally named after the man who first settled here with his extended family. Thomas Hayle, he said, was a poet whose most famous poem told the story of his meeting and speaking to the Queen of the Fairies in the Eildon Hills. Not only had Thomas spoken to the Queen, but he also claimed to have accompanied her to her kingdom under the hills. He thought he had stayed with her for three days, but when Thomas resurfaced he found that he had in fact been away for three years.

Drenching wet as she was, Ainsley cared less about the inn’s origins than she did about drying. Unfortunately, courtesy of the sudden rain, they were not the only patrons looking to secure a room for the eve. Despite it, the innkeeper stood on a stool, welcoming all of his newly acquired guests and telling them of the inn.

“I’ve but three rooms,” he shouted to more than twenty people. Everyone began speaking at once.

“Is there no’ another inn, or a manor house, in Mend Hayle?” she asked Tor.

“None suitable,” he answered, saying naught as chaos reigned around them.

Beyond the crowd gathered beside the stool, the Hayle Inn appeared full. Not a table could be found. Pity. Ainsley had been hoping for a hot meal, a mug of ale, and a soft pillow this eve. It seemed they’d be getting none of those.

“Master Hayle,” Tor shouted. Unlike the other voices, his commanded an authority difficult to ignore. The innkeeper turned to him. “Yer great-grandfather was indeed a man of many talents. He sang his poems for coin, did he no’?”